The mango tree in the landlord's garden drops fruit when the wind blows hard. He said that now and then you can hear a plop. He worked as an ideologue of the communist party. Presumably he wrote pieces in official newspapers, etc. I wondered if he really believed in the revolution.
Breakfast consisted of minicroquettes and scrambled eggs. No milk for coffee. If there is no desire for milk, then one will not be unhappy when it is absent, I reflected. I had a suspicion that my observation wasn't original. But I caught myself already starting to live in the future, imagining what I would do when I got back to the Netherlands. I was obviously Cuba-fatigued. Tired of being hassled by panhandlers. Tired of not being able to reach destinations. Tired of everything being a little messy, a little more bother. I yearned to be back in a country where things just worked.
I needed to kill time until noon. I wished I had some reading material left; I had given away all the books I had. I trimmed my toenails. At 1100 I couldn't stand the boredom any more and went out for a walk. I discovered that the cigar shop was open again. Cuba still managed to surprise. I bought a packet of 20 cigarillos for K. There was a strange export limit of 23 cigars in force when I was there. (It has probably changed since.) Incidentally imitation and poor quality cigars are a standard street scam in Cuba, so one is advised to buy from official shops.
I was tempted to buy some cheap books in Spanish for reading practice, perhaps Castro's History Will Absolve Me, or works of Isabel Allende and Henry Miller, but I knew that I would falter in my good intentions. Paulo Coelho seemed to be popular in Cuba.
There was neither spaghetti nor pizza available for lunch at Rumbos for reasons that will remain a mystery to me. The waiter was sullen. I spent the rest of my pesos on peanuts.
The landlord told me that Isabel had a couple of lodgers who were also going to the airport and I could share a taxi with them. I showered and checked out, abandoning my thongs and sneakers. The two were mother and daughter. The mother was Dutch Indonesian and had been visiting her daughter who was studying for a few months in Cuba. I accompanied them on a last-minute shopping spree in Holguin. They bought trinkets, cigars and rum.
It is a little odd that a small city like Holguin has an international airport, the Frank Pais airport. I suppose it, and Santiago de Cuba, are the largest cities in the east. The customs check was slow. I bought one last CD from the airport shop before boarding.
Our takeoff was delayed because a couple of Dutch nationals were denied entry and had to return by the same plane that brought them to Holguin. I never knew why they were personae non gratae.
Was it worth it? Would I do it again? Certainly one does not go to Cuba for the cuisine. While I ate many competently cooked meals, they were doing the best they could with basic ingredients. As for beaches, Australia has better ones, and other Caribbean islands can compare with Cuba. Cuba wasn't exorbitant but wasn't a budget destination either. You could get the same quality for much less in SE Asia. The Spanish colonial architecture is worth seeing, but a little wasted on me. I enjoyed Cuban music whenever I encountered it. Most of all though, Cuba was an adventure, one of those oddities that fascinate travellers. A place to collect tales to bore listeners for years to come.
What would become of Cuba? It was sad that it had fallen so far behind in development and it might be hard to catch up. The starvation days of the Special Period may be over, but there was so much human potential going to waste in Cuba. They did have the advantages of high literacy, excellent medical care and people who are adept at improvisación. I once saw a documentary showing a Cuban who had fitted a Lada engine to an American car body. Now that's clever.
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